The Lonely Bird

Upon the summit of the ancient tower
Unto the land around, thou, lonely bird,
Carollest sweetly till the evening hour,
And through the vale thy melody is heard.
Spring makes the gentle air
Fragrant and bright, and animates the fields,
Bidding the gazer in his heart rejoice.
Hark to the lowing herds, the flocks that bleat,
The other birds that full of joyaunce sing
And in the air in happy circles meet,
As though they homage to their fair time bring.
Thou, full of thought, beholdest all aside,
Nor carest to take wing
With thy companions, scorning their delight.
Thou singest, and the flower
Of spring thus fadeth with thy life's sweet hour.

Ah me! how like to thine
My habit doth appear! Pleasure and mirth,
The happy offspring of our earlier age,
And thou, Youth's brother, Love,
Thou bitter sigh of our advancing years.
I heed not; why, I cannot tell; but far
From them I take my way;
And like a hermit lone,
Nor to my birthplace known,
I see the spring of my existence die.
This day that now is yielding to the night.
Was in our hamlet ever festive held.
Upon the air serene the bells resound
And frequent firing of the distant guns,
Arousing the deep echoes far and wide.
In festival attire
The youths and maidens go,
Leaving their homes, upon the country paths,
Rejoicing to be seen and to admire.
I to this tower, remote
From sight of men, repairing all alone,
All joy and mirth postpone
For other times; and as I gaze on high,
The sun doth strike mine eye;
Beyond the summit of yon mountain far,
After the day serene,
He sinketh to his rest, and seems to say
That happy youth is leaving me for aye.

Thou, lonely warbler, coming to the close
Of what the stars have granted thee to live,
In truth of these thy ways
Shalt not complain, for Nature on thee lays
Thy fondness of repose.
To me, if of old age
The dreaded terrors stern
I cannot from me turn,
When to no heart this soul of mine can yearn,
When void the earth will be, the future day
More than the present, wearisome and grey:
How will this lone mood seem?
What shall I of myself in past years deem?
Ah me! repent too late,
And often gaze behind disconsolate.